


Those days are gone

by JoCarthage



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this in answer to this kink-meme prompt on lj: </p><p>"The Dean/Castiel can be platonic, but I just really like it when Castiel is in pain. I'd like a fic of Dean trying to help Castiel cope with pain. Cas could be injured on a hunt or been tortured by enemies - the situation doesn't matter as long as it's painful. I'd Dean to be scared as shit by the situation but covering it up for Cas's sake, trying to keep his moral up. Ideally, Dean would be forced to do something that increases Cas's pain (like stitches without anesthetic or making him walk on a broken bone)." (http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/79365.html?thread=29445381#t29445381)</p><p>Spoilers: for the current episode in Season 9.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those days are gone

  
Castiel wondered what part of the motel comforter he was bleeding on now. He thought it might be the little girl's face, though it could be the weeping willow. He rather thought he'd seen a small yellow bear crouching where his left hip now pressed in, but that train of thought pulled away at the next tug of the needle through his back.  
  
He held his grunt inside, kept breathing, filling the space between the hump of the blanket and his face with warm and increasingly unbreathable air. He thought more about the blanket, the way it felt like plastic and was covered in tiny nubs. Evidence of years of lazy washing and no love.  
  
He felt Dean shift above him, felt his blade-calloused palm press into his shoulder. He turned his face away, and tried to begin breathing again. He nearly had it when Dean gasped and he began to feel again.  
  
The pain was like nothing he'd lived through in heaven. His mind had no warrens to hide in, no walls to build and rebuild, always a step and a half ahead of the torturer-corrector. He could not hope for God's voice to hold him safe.  
  
The pain blossomed from his shoulder where Dean has pushed his needle too far into the meat of his muscle. It whipped down his back, tugging his attention to every stitch, every involuntary flinch that yanked the dental floss. They'd tried cleaning with whiskey, but there had either been enough for the wound or the man, and they'd decided on hygiene over forgetting.  
  
Castiel couldn't get away. Even if he left this room, he would carry these stitches with him until he outgrew them. The pain would ride him. He had the most human of choices: heal, or die.

  
Castiel was just considering this, that death was truly a constant biological option for him, when Dean's hand shifted again. He moved it up to cup over Castiel's shoulder, fingers brushing along the soft forward skin. Even as he resumed stitching, his braced palm lessened the pressure, his fingers seeking grooves to cup.   
  
His hand started to fit into Castiel's shoulder, and Castiel let the muscles underneath is relax into that pressure. Dean's grip got tighter on the softer muscles, and Castiel welcomed the anchor. The shape of his hand, on his shoulder, it spoke to him.  
  
Castiel tried to keep his mind from hell, but instead traced every point of contact he held with Dean's body. Knees on either side of his naked hips, palm on his shoulder, knuckles occasionally brushing against his back as he moved the needle through. Castiel also tried to keep his mind away from the needle.  
  
He knew he needed the stitching. He even knew this was the most easy it could go without a whole host of expensive drugs. But that meant nothing to the pain. He tried breathing, counting his breaths, trying to force one more count into each inhale and exhale.  
  
He tried to work out a method of breathing that kept his back moving as little as possible. The breaths were shallow, and unfulfilling, but the lightheadedness that came was as welcome as anything he was surviving at the moment. The smells of the motel tried to occupy him, swirling of stale carpet and musty sheets. Then Dean leaned further across his back and he could smell him.  
  
The blood of its first child victim, his own blood. Leather. Sweat, so much sweet sweat. Dirt and chalky-loam. A bit of fall leaves, but after that Castiel assumed he was lightly hallucinating, since the next things he smelled were things like honor and pride and courage and stubbornness and family.  
  
Dean eased back to settle his weight onto his hips, examining his work. He traced a hand down the winding trail of unbroken skin to either side, up one side and down the other. He shifted off Castiel, and Castiel rolled to his side, making space. Dean settled him again with a flat palm on his neck, and Castiel came back to his stomach.  
  
Dean sacrificed all the towels to clean up and spent long minutes alone, washing every curve of Cas's blood from under his fingernails. His clothes were a lost cause, so he returned, hands red-chapped and body unclothed. Castiel was breathing shallowly, arms in tight. Dean lay beside him on his stomach and traced a kiss over his nearest eyebrow.  
  
His eyes were open and Dean kissed his nose, the fires in his pale cheeks, the blush of his mouth. He settled behind him, still as he could manage, arms also in tight. He hooked a heel around Cas's undamaged calf and matched the man's shallow breathing, and they lay, breathing together. 

**Author's Note:**

> When I write, every scene has a theme song, and this one is this. If you listen to Night Vale, you'll recognize this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkn6Df9qpT8


End file.
